


Good Roast

by lovelycarcass



Category: SKAM (TV)
Genre: Director Even Bech Næsheim, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Film Critic Isak Valtersen, Film Festival AU, Fluff, Grumpy Isak, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-15 13:18:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13031961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovelycarcass/pseuds/lovelycarcass
Summary: “What can I say, these events are crawling with self-indulgent, condescending assholes with inflated egos, with which I’m sure you’re familiar.”Even’s blue eyes flash at his words and he smiles devilishly. “I was under the impression that you thrived on these things.”Or, Even is a rising filmmaker and Isak is a cynical, sharp-tongued film critic.





	1. Chapter 1

“God knows why I keep getting invited to these things,” Isak mutters under his breath. He fiddles with the shiny media pass looped around his neck with one hand, and nurses a flute of champagne with the other.

Taking a long swig of his drink, he tracks his surroundings surreptitiously. Isak has a pretty decent view of the filmmakers, actors and reporters milling about and making small talk. Here and there, glimpses of tall, blonde-haired people make him start a little; then they’ll turn slightly around and Isak will let out a shaky breath of relief.

That’s the thing about dating within the industry. He keeps bumping into the same few people all the time; it’s _painstaking_ just trying to avoid his exes. And then while trying to steer clear of your exes, he inevitably gets roped into earth-shatteringly boring conversations with pretentious snobs. Isak can only muster so much patience and pretend to nod intelligently so many times.

He’s barely just escaped from a painful conversation about an upcoming film, loosely described as “an epic meditation on the human existence”. Frankly, it doesn't sound like something Isak would buy tickets to watch if it weren't for his job, but he sagely gives some encouraging words to the French director pitching the story anyway.

At least he’s held himself back from commenting thoughtlessly during the master class earlier. Once or twice, he’s had to clench his teeth from reacting towards the ridiculous things that some film academics and cinephiles have said.

He decides internally that he’s stayed long enough; he’s extended Jonas plenty of goodwill by showing up at all. Jonas knows how much he hates having to attend these things. He takes a new sip of his drink – shit, this thing is delicious – as his brain scrambles for an exit strategy.

“Not thinking of leaving already, are we?” Isak jumps at the deep voice and swivels around, his champagne sloshing out of his glass and onto his hand.

He narrows his eyes and takes in the knowing smirk on Even Bech Næsheim’s face.

“Well, it’s boring as hell and I’ve got better things to do,” Isak retorts, quickly licking champagne off the back of his hand in an undignified manner.

“I enjoyed your witty commentary at yesterday’s seminar,” Even tells him.

Isak flushes, remembering. The stupid seminar on French New Wave porn. Fuck.

"It was very enlightening," Even continues, his lips twitching. "I'm sure that poor film student you challenged left the seminar thoroughly schooled on...gay romance."

Isak fumes. Now that he’s thinking about it, Isak swears that he heard Even snorting quietly in the background.

He clears his throat, ignoring Even's smirk.

“What can I say, these events are crawling with self-indulgent, condescending assholes with inflated egos, with which I’m sure you’re familiar.”

Even’s blue eyes flash at his words and he smiles devilishly. “I was under the impression that you _thrived_ on these things.”

Isak feels his cheeks warm traitorously. “What are you implying?”

“I’m just saying there’s nothing you wouldn’t enjoy here. Free drinks, free food, plenty of attractive people,” Even shrugs mildly. He must have picked up on Isak’s anger, because the smile on his face widens. “Speaking of, I don’t see your _boyfriend_ around. Who’s the arm candy this time?”

Even makes a show of swivelling his head around and Isak feels a flare of annoyance.

“Julian’s not my boyfriend anymore,” Isak shoots back. “And I don’t see why it’s your business what I do with my life.”

The smile dims a bit on Even’s face. “Oh. I’m-”

“Save it,” Isak snaps, knocking back the last of his drink. He drops the glass on the passing tray of a server and nods curtly. “Goodbye.”

“Isak, wait -”

Isak shrugs off the hand on his arm roughly and pins Even with his best glare. “Look, I don’t know what’s your problem with me but I’m not in the mood. Frankly, I'm tired of doing this with you, ok? We hardly know each other, and we’re not friends. I’d like to keep things strictly professional from now on.”

A muscle ticks at the side of Even’s jaw, but he releases his grasp onto Isak’s arm. “Fine.”

“ _Fine.”_

* * *

 

As it turns out, it isn’t fine. Far from it.

Since it’s film festival season, Isak gets invited to these film master classes and seminars every other day. Jonas makes him go because it’s good to be in the loop of things and “keep relations warm”, especially given the often-antagonistic relationship between film critics and filmmakers.

And so, when he’s not busy avoiding his ex, Julian, he sees Even Bech Næsheim all the goddamn time.

Isak isn’t obliged to attend most of the master classes – they’re mostly for cinephiles eager to meet the filmmakers and cast members. He prefers to watch the films and then write about them purely from his own viewing experience. He doesn’t need to know about all the gritty production details, which can influence his appreciation of the films. Besides, it’s a hassle having to go for all the sideline events when he’s got so much writing to do after all the film screenings.

Besides - he swears - he keeps seeing random people shooting little knowing looks at him, can practically feel the other journalists and festival-goers circling the ancillary events like vultures, waiting to catch him in his next “explosive act”.

His "claim to fame" dates back to one of his first assignments, during the release of Even Bech Næsheim’s second feature-length film. He’d been excited to cover the film, and maybe even interview the young director for his magazine.

And yes, so he's been told that he has quite the temper. But contrary to the prevalent (and misguided) belief, Isak's never intended to start his career this way. As much as he loves the big screen, he hates the theatrical. All he has ever wanted was to huddle in his room and write about films for his magazine.

The magazine started out as an unpaid, unsolicited gig. _Kardemomme Toast_ was a quirky, independent publication that covered arthouse films. Jonas and Isak pitched, chased and funded the publication of their own stories.

Jonas knew how much Isak wanted to meet Even in real life, especially since Isak had come across Even’s debut work when he’d first chanced upon it in film school.

It seemed like an unremarkable film on the outset, but then it grew into something exquisitely heartbreaking and its emotional depth took Isak by surprise. Isak remembers marvelling over the quiet melancholy, the suppressed guilt and the underlying hope that simmered gently, woven into a short story that was barely twenty minutes long.

Isak liked films before, but Even made Isak fall in love with cinema.

A few years later, Even’s debut feature-length film shot him to stardom, thrusting the young filmmaker into the limelight in the independent film circles. The film was, in Isak’s opinion, beautifully shot and deserving of every award. But it could never replace the way Even’s short film had so deeply affected him.

When Even announced that he was screening his second feature film in the local film festival, Isak nearly frothed at the mouth at the opportunity. Meeting Even was supposed to be the highlight of his career as a film critic.

And then, he saw the film.

Isak still remembers the moment with pristine clarity: how he slumped in his seat as the credits rolled, shell-shocked, nearly frothing at his mouth from betrayal. Betrayal from _what,_ exactly _,_ Isak still doesn't quite know. He left the theatre seething and bewildered out of his mind. The bright spark of anger surprised even himself, but Isak found the film utterly devoid of empathy. In a fit of rage, he wrote a scathing piece of review and published it in _Kardemomme Toast_ the next week.

Readership for _Kardemomme Toast_ blew up.

Isak’s critique was derided for being unnecessarily harsh; many others appreciated the experimental, unconventional tone of the film. After all, Isak came out of nowhere with his criticism of an up and coming filmmaker; a critic’s darling known for his bold vision and unorthodox style. “ _Kardemomme Toast?_ More like _Kardemomme Roast_ ,” one online forum user wrote snottily.

It all came to a head during one of the panel discussions for Even’s film. Isak failed to tamp down his emotions, calling the film a “pretentious, pompous piece of shit” and lambasting the excessive use of hybridised images and sounds.

He still remembers the look of shock on Even’s face as the young director had stared at him, wind taken out of his sails from this yelling, red-faced man.

Isak likes to believe that he would have eventually gotten over the incident, but his media friends never let him forget it; the dramatic exchange at the panel discussion was forever immortalised in articles and photographs. These days, when they see Isak at one of these film events, they still like to jokingly allude to his “little flair for the theatrics” every now and then.

Curiously, though, Even stops directing films after his third-feature film, which was fairly well received. He’s turned to producing instead. Isak still thinks it's a damn shame, because he actually quite enjoyed the third film, but he’ll never tell Even this. Never in a million years.

Instead, they still see each other at these film events, either pretend not to know each other (Isak) or try their best to irritate the hell out of each other (Even).

Whatever, it doesn't bother him.

He hardly cares about Even, anyway.

* * *

"A drink for you, sir?"

"Yes, please!"

Isak grabs a drink from the corner of his eye hastily, swallowing the cool liquid in large gulps.

He finishes the drink in two seconds and swipes the back of his hand across his mouth.

Day 3 of the film festival and so far things have been going pretty well. 

He hasn't bumped into Julian, he hasn't gotten into anything too embarrassing, and Even remains, as far as Isak's concerned, forgotten and folded into the back of his mind's eye like an unwanted college jersey.

Which still suits him just fine.

You know, except Isak has never quite worked out how Even feels about him.

And this bugs him. Which is perfectly normal, isn't it? Of course Isak cares about how people view him. It's hardly about Even; frankly, Isak cares about what _anybody_ thinks of him. But after so many encounters, Isak still can't quite put a finger on why Even takes every chance to infuriate him.

Sometimes he's so sure that Even still bears a grudge for the little incident, especially with the petty way Even always provokes him.

But then there'd be the rare occasion, when Even and him would unwittingly jump in on certain panel issues, and they'd clash beautifully in a fierce discussion, and Isak would feel a spark of something special in his chest, and he swears, _he swears_ , at the corner of his eye, he'd catch Even's secret smile, and then -

And then, nothing.

Well, whatever it is, he's sure Even feels nothing for him now. Where there might have been an inkling of a grudging respect in the past, it's crumbled into nothing now.

Something has changed between them.

They were never _friendly,_ by any means, but Isak finds this polite disinterest staggeringly strange.

Post-panel discussion, Isak has an elbow perched upon a glass table by the corner of the reception hall, as he resumes his usual perusal of film people milling about. He spots Even almost immediately, clutching onto his plate of food as he stares at Even’s profile.

Even’s golden hair is tousled in its typical disarray, and his sleeves are rolled up his arms, exposing his pale skin. Ok, so he'll admit that Even looks quite nice in his deep green shirt. He's also sufficiently secure about himself to acknowledge that Even has also got rather nice looking legs.

Isak has to angle his neck slightly to train his eyes on him, almost willing Even to meet his eyes.

The young filmmaker is nodding to something someone is saying. From the distance, Isak can’t quite hear what Even is telling them, but from the way they’re all laughing he’s probably offering a charming quip every now and then.

Isak's always hated people who laughed while telling jokes, heads thrown back and throats exposed, as if they were the funniest people on Earth. Did they think they were in a luxury brand commercial? Those are the absolute worst, he thinks furiously, munching onto a chocolate eclair.

Then, as if sensing someone looking, Even turns.

Isak feels his jaw slacken when blue eyes merely sweep right past him.

Isak tries to swallow the weird ball of emotion lodged in his throat. He quickly dismisses it. There’s nothing to get upset over, they’re not friends. He’s said so to Even himself.

He stalks angrily over to a serving tray, deposits his plate and plucks up a drink. Coke. The fizzy, sugary drink calms him somewhat. He lets out an unwitting burp and coughs into his hand in slight embarrassment.

 _For fuck’s sake,_ Isak berates himself internally. He is a film critic. And a pretty good one, at that. He writes for a living. He’s a _wordsmith._ He shouldn’t be downing iced coke and moping about people who don’t even like him. _Go around and mingle!_ He imagines Jonas telling him. _Use your words!_

“Pretty good discussion, huh?”

Isak angles himself towards the voice. A bright-eyed girl with cropped hair is smiling at him. She looks vaguely familiar. Probably an actress or something.

Isak musters a grin and nods. “Yeah,” he adds lamely.

“I’ve just always been a fan of Even Bech Næsheim,” she gushes. “It’s my first time at this film festival and I was so excited to meet him. I was so glad to hear that there was going to be a panel discussion for the film he's produced.”

Isak tries not to let his face sour. “Sure,” he offers. “He’s a talented guy.”

“Pity he’s not directing anymore. But Even’s still got such a good eye for great scripts though. I’d love to work with him one day.” 

“Shame,” Isak agrees. “The director’s pretty inexperienced, but I thought he did a great job.”

“I agree! I think that’s the beautiful thing about these film festivals. We get to see new talents and old masters of cinema. I’m an aspiring actress myself, and this is such an eye-opener. It’s such a welcoming climate for people new to the industry.”

“Right,” Isak says, gulping down his coke.

“The press, on the other hand, can be pretty vicious,” the girl continues. “Have you heard of this crazy episode that happened a few years ago at this very place? Apparently there was a film critic who’d shouted at Even like a lunatic because he didn’t like his film!” 

Isak nearly chokes on his drink.

“What do film critics know about making films, anyway? They’re so far removed from the whole production process!” The girl adds, affronted, “I know of this actor friend who was dating this film critic. Apparently he was snobbish as hell. Totally narrow-minded about films, too.”

“Emma! There you are,” someone says, approaching the pair. 

Isak feels dread rise up his spine.

The man’s face ripples with shock when he registers Isak’s face. It’s -

“Julian,” Emma greets the man, smiling brightly. “I was just chatting with my new friend here…” She trails off, realises that they haven’t introduced themselves, before tittering in embarrassment. “Oh right. I’m Emma. And you are…?”

“Leaving,” Isak spits, turning away hastily.

“Isak, wait,” Julian calls after him.

“I have nothing to say to you,” Isak says, making long, quick strides.

“Please just listen to me. I’m sorry, ok? Can you just -”

An arm grabs him roughly and Isak jerks out of the grasp.

“Don’t touch me,” Isak sneers.

“I swear, Isak, we were drunk and I -”

“You cheated on me, and we broke up. What else is there to talk about?”

“I’m trying to explain here -”

“We’ve been over this, Julian,” Isak sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I’m over you, ok? If this is what’s been bothering you -”

“You’ve been waiting for me to fuck up, haven’t you?” Julian says quietly, steely-eyed. “This wasn’t about me cheating on you. This has been a long time coming. You’ve got commitment issues and you just needed an excuse to want out.”

“That’s not fair -”

“It’s the truth, isn’t it? When you found out I cheated, you never even tried to find out why. You just left. You’ve never fought for us.”

Isak rears back, as if slapped. “You’re not doing this to me anymore, Julian. You’re not going to manipulate me into taking you back. I’ve tried again and again to make this work, but this relationship…it’s just exhausting and I don’t feel happy with you anymore. You have to let me go.”

“Isak -”

“Let go!”

He jerks out of Julian’s grasp and feels himself crash into something solid and warm.

“What’s going on?” A deep voice rumbles from behind him.

 _Oh no, not him. Anyone but him,_ Isak thinks.

Isak feels his cheeks flame with mortification as his eyes start to sting. He ducks his face as he stalks away briskly. He ignores the eyes watching him, glowing faces tilted towards the commotion like an enraptured crowd at a concert.

* * *

 “You ok?”

Isak slumps into the public bench, hiding his face in his hands. “Go away, Even.”

He hears a quiet huff as Even sidles up to him.

Even doesn’t say anything for a long moment, but the quiet sounds of them breathing in the cold air help Isak calm down.

He finally raises his head from his hands and sniffs.

“I’m sorry,” Even says.

Isak looks up at him then. Even is watching him intensely, the tip of his nose pink from the cold. He’s put on a large, black coat and he looks so warm and soft that Isak forces himself to look away.

“For what?”

“For what I said…for implying that you…”

“Sleep around?” Isak cuts in. He shrugs his shoulders once. “I guess I do. Maybe Julian’s right. Maybe the reason why it’s so hard for me to stay in a relationship is because I’ve got commitment issues. Or maybe because I’m so messed up that I always attract the wrong kind of people.”

Even makes a soft, affronted noise. “Don’t…say that about yourself. I didn’t say that. Any of that.” 

Isak rubs his nose and sighs. “I know that. You wouldn’t…you wouldn’t mean those things about people.”

“You’re not messed up, Isak,” Even presses earnestly. “I know you don’t think…we’re friends,” he curls his lip at the word, “but I do know you. You’re…you’re something else.”

Isak snorts helplessly. “Thanks, I guess.”

Even knocks their shoulders together. “I mean it. You’re different. In a good way.”

Isak ducks his head to hide his smile.

They sit in companionable silence. Isak lets his mind wander as he studies the winking lights from the houses in the distance and listens to the soft sounds of traffic.

“I don’t hate you, you know,” Isak hears himself say softly.

He feels Even stiffen slightly beside him. “Ok,” he finally replies. There is an amused lilt to his voice.

Isak shifts to look at Even. He clears his throat. “I don’t. I…I er, I loved your films. Especially your first one. I watched it with my first boyfriend. We fell in love over your film.”

Even wrinkles his nose. “Er, you fell in love over _Where Dreams Go To Die_?”

Isak frowns for a second, perplexed. Then his expression clears. “Oh, fuck, no. Of course not. I mean, I enjoyed _Where Dreams Go To Die_ , but I was talking about _The Boy Who Couldn’t Hold His Breath Underwater._ ”

Even sucks in a quick breath. He stares at Isak with a strange expression. “That’s…that’s my first short film. Not many people have seen it.”

“Saw it while I was at school. Made me cry,” Isak admits, laughing slightly. “I’ve watched it over a hundred times since.” 

“Wow,” Even exhales, almost in awe. “I’ve never…” He trails off.

Isak watches him for a long while, but when it becomes clear that Even isn’t going to finish his words, he lets the moment curl up and fall asleep between them.

His fight with Julian, all his meaningless small talk with faceless filmmakers, and the stupid argument he had with Even earlier in the week blur like a shuffling deck of flipcards.

“Why haven’t you directed any more films?” Isak asks, a while later.

Even shrugs. Then he sighs, turning to look at Isak with an expression more open and more vulnerable than he’s ever seen him. “I guess it was because of all the pressure, and all the expectations. It’s a lot to live up to. I made _Dreams_ without any expectations and every one loved it. Then all of a sudden, everyone was anticipating my next film.”

Even swallows and drops his gaze. “ _Life, or Something_ was hell to make. I didn’t enjoy the process at all. People lapped up everything I told them about the film, though. Half the time I didn’t actually know what I was doing, or why I was doing the film. Until you called me out for it.”

Isak jerks in surprise.

“Yeah,” Even laughs ruefully. “It woke me up. That press conference. Then we kept seeing each other at all these events and I…I guess I was curious about you.”

Isak rolls his eyes. “Jonas keeps receiving these invitations on my behalf. Honestly I get so lazy most of the time, I don’t know why I keep having to go.” 

“Yeah, well,” Even clears his throat. “About that.”

“What?”

“I kind of…Well, we knew some people in the event committee, and I may have…on _occasion_ …suggested including your magazine for the guest list.”

Isak widens his eyes. “ _What?”_

“You’d liven things up,” Even makes a casual gesture with his hands, as if pointing out something totally mundane, and not something incredibly revealing about how much Isak had misunderstood him. “You always asked interesting questions at the seminars and conferences. It made things more fun.” 

Isak is dumbfounded. “You thought I made things _fun_.”

Even nods, cheeks pinking.

“Huh.” Isak tucks his hands into the pockets of his coat, turning the words around in his head. “I’ve…I’ve always thought you didn’t like me. That you were still holding what I said about your film against me.”

“It’s your job to critique films,” Even points out. “Besides, I agreed with your points about my film.”

“Well,” Isak worries his lower lip. “To be fair, _Life, or Something_ wasn’t exactly a terrible film. I mean, I’ve seen worse.”

“Thanks,” Even says dryly, rolling his eyes.

“Is that – Is that why you’ve stuck to producing?” Isak asks in a soft voice. “Because of what I wrote?”

Isak hears a quiet intake of breath.

“No,” he finally says.

Isak waits for him to elaborate, but he’s left staring at the side of Even’s face as he falls into silence.

He's sort of beautiful up close, Isak thinks idly. Even has remarkably long lashes for a guy, and he's got these nice looking lips.

He's never really thought of Even as anything other than this filmmaker he's admired. But now, Even feels real and solid and  _alive_ beside him. He's no longer just someone he sees from time to time, shrouded by the magic and mystique of films and the world of cinema.

“I wrote the screenplay for _Dreams_ when I was manic,” Even says suddenly, words tumbling from his lips in a rush.

Isak stills, listening. His brow puckers as he processes the words.

“It just made me think -” Even swallows, choking slightly on his words. “What if…What if I’m just not good enough…when I’m…when I’m…”

“What the fuck?” Isak intones, heartfelt. “What the ever living _fuck?_ ”

Even’s entire body ripples at his words. 

“Are you telling me…” Isak continues, on edge. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but are you saying that you think you’d be a better filmmaker when you’re _off your meds?_ Are you _out of your mind?_ ” 

Even stiffens. “What was I supposed to think? I’ve seen the feedback about _Dreams_ and then about _Life, or Something._ ”

“You’re supposed to think that you’re a goddamn talented filmmaker. You made _The Boy Who Couldn’t Hold His Breath Underwater_ when you were barely out of school. And then when you were diagnosed, you bounced back and made three good films. So what if some people didn’t like one or two of your works? Like you said, I’m a film critic. My job is to critique films. Your job is to _stay on your meds_ and keep making films.”

Even makes a careless shrug, a little heartbreaking gesture, as if to show he’s unaffected by Isak’s words, but it’s foiled by the slight tremble of his chin. And just like that, all the fight in Isak slowly bleeds away.

“I’m serious, Even,” he softens his tone. “You make beautiful films. You’re a talented filmmaker. I would know; I’m your biggest fan. I’ve watched everything you’ve made. Don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise. You don’t need to stay off your meds to be good.”

Even blows out a long breath. When he turns to face Isak, his eyes are unnaturally shiny.

His face is shaking with emotion, but his lips quirk into a teasing, almost dopey smile. “My biggest fan? Really?”

Isak rolls his eyes, but he bumps his shoulder playfully against Even’s. He feels lighter and happier than he’s been all week. 

“So,” Isak draws out the word. “What do you think about being friends?”

Even snickers, but his blue eyes are soft. “Friends, huh?”

Isak nods, grinning helplessly.

“I’d like that,” Even says.

**TBC**


	2. Chapter 2

For the umpteenth time, Isak lets out a tiny sigh as he’s doodling a curly vine down the margin of his notebook. He’s just adding little leaves onto his vine as the filmmaker clears his throat and resumes his analysis of his film.

“It’s an authentic retelling of the working class in Italy after the war,” the filmmaker is saying. “And our art department has been very careful with detailing of the set, the costumes, and the general mood of the film. We’re embracing the style of…” Isak holds his breath, suppresses an eye roll, “ _neorealism._ ”

The filmmaker says this with a sweeping gesture, as if he’s gently brushing off imaginary dust off an imaginary table before him. It’s a move engineered to add dramatic flourish to his description.

“And were you inspired by _Bicycle Thieves_?” Someone from the audience pipes up. Isak adds a bunch of grapes onto his curly vine.

“Well,” the filmmaker says in his Italian accent. “ _Bicycle Thieves_ is undoubtedly a hallmark of the cinematic style of…” Isak waits with bated breath, “ _neorealism..._ ” 

“One more time I hear the world _neorealism_ I’m going to shoot myself,” Isak mutters under his breath, adding particularly vicious thorns to his vine-margin.

Someone coughs to hide a laugh and Isak jerks his head towards the noise. 

Sitting on the seat diagonally behind him, Even is snickering behind a hand. “Shut up,” Isak scowls, tamping down the grin that is threatening to break on his face. 

Even taps a question onto the shoulder of a polished looking elderly lady next to him, silently motioning for her to switch places with him. When he finally comes to sit directly behind Isak, he speaks lowly in his ear, “I thought you said you weren’t coming.”

Isak feels his face warm at the puff of Even’s breath against his skin. He shifts uneasily on his seat.

“We’re doing a feature on Italian films,” he says dryly, resuming his doodling. “And I’m trying to score an interview with him for our next issue.”

In the background, the filmmaker drones on, _“It’s about finding the truth, and telling truthful stories in the most natural setting…”_

Even raises his eyebrows, “What happened to that pretentious new films pitch you were talking about?”

“Didn’t pass,” Isak shrugs, rolling his eyes. He intones in a mechanical voice, “We’re a small magazine. We can’t afford to offend anyone right now.”

Even chuckles. “You didn’t think about that when you ripped my film to pieces back then.”

_“And neorealism is about authenticity of the craft, honesty in storytelling …”_

“Fuck off,” Isak says loudly. He earns a scandalized look from the elderly lady beside Even and a swell of titters ripples through the small crowd.

Blushing hotly, he ducks his head. To his indignation, he sees that Even’s shoulders are shaking helplessly. He shifts in his seat and snaps his notebook shut, shooting an apologetic look towards the filmmaker, who is shaking his head slightly with downturned lips.

He resolutely does not turn back to look at Even for the rest of the seminar, though his cheeks warm at the sound of low chuckles. In his stomach, tiny vines creep up its walls, twisting and curling like the haphazard strokes in his book.

* * *

Something’s changed.

They still get along well, and they get along with each other’s friends. But something’s different - a radio between frequencies; a little hard to grasp but a presence that exists in the deep recesses of his awareness.

He doesn't quite know what, but he knows specifically _when_  something's changed.

It happened when they were having drinks at a small pub last weekend. There was nothing particularly important about the way the night had begun. But Isak remembers thinking that there was something oddly romantic about the décor as night fell. The lights were a soft orange and the walls were draped in deep reds and maroons.

He was pleasantly tipsy, and Even was in a good mood after wrapping up production for his upcoming film.

They were leaning slightly towards each other on the bar counter, sitting on their tiny bar stools, laughing at something– Isak can’t even remember the joke now.

Like an out-of-body-experience, Isak sees a pink-cheeked, skinny sprig of a man, wobbling precariously on the edge of his barstool, blinking slowly at his companion.

“You know what you should do?” the skinny man hiccupped, squinting at his friend. 

“What?”

“You should…you should make films again.

“I _am_ making films.”

Isak remembers how Even grasped his elbow to steady him. He remembers waving him away. “No, that’s not what I mean. I mean you should…write again. _Direct._ You’ve got so many brilliant ideas, y’know?”

“I do know. You’ve been telling me. Pushing me, really,” Even was saying, shooting him a look of fond exasperation. “But I just…I don’t know. I think I’m going to wait for a bit. Until I’m sure.” 

Isak remembers arguing, “No, no, no. No waiting. Not anymore. You know the…the phrase that says good things come to those who wait?” He has a faint impression of himself – the skinny, drunk little fellow on his barstool – peering at his companion through scrunched up eyes. “I’m not a believer of that. You’ve got to act on your feelings. Sometimes, if you wait too long, these things just, y’know,” Isak sees the skinny man grabbing his companion’s hand on impulse, prying his fingers apart roughly, “…they slip right through your…your fingers.”

Isak did not get the sarcastic retort or the amused smirk he was expecting. Instead, he remembers Even staring intently back at him, an unreadable question in his eyes.

He remembers registering something warm on his hand.

Yes, they were holding hands.

Isak remembers this moment; the mortification that lived and died within a second. He remembers how he'd wanted to snort in embarrassment, remove his hand, make a joke. But then his words died in his throat.

He remembers the belated realisation that Even was tracing the back of his hand, the ridges of his knuckles, and the delicate web between his fingers; the way the pad of his thumb was stroking his skin.

“Um,” he remembers saying lamely, staring at their hands. He’d looked back up at Even. “Um.”

At this point in the memory, things become slightly foggy – like he’s squinting through frosted glass to study the details.

He thinks he remembers them leaning closer and closer together, faces tinted orange in the dim glow of the pub’s lights.

He thinks he remembers how the blue in Even’s eyes looked almost black.

He thinks he remembers the warmth of Even’s breaths on his face.

He wonders if some funky part of his brain has added that detail, having revisited this moment in his memory so many times since.

But here's the thing.

He _can’t remember_ what happened next. 

* * *

He’s pretty sure they didn’t kiss that night.

If they did, Even wouldn’t have pretended that nothing had happened.

If they did, Isak would have fucking remembered it.

* * *

“Wow.”

“Shut up.” 

Isak tugs onto his deep purple sweater self-consciously. “Jonas’ mom knitted this for me. I couldn’t not wear it.” He adds defensively, “And it’s comfortable as fuck.”

Still scowling, he takes two packs of beer from Even’s outstretched hands and invites him into the apartment

Even holds up his hands in mock surrender. “I wasn’t saying anything. You look very nice. Warm.” 

“Purple isn’t my colour,” Isak admits grudgingly.

“I disagree. You look like a sexy…” He looks away, searching for the word, before he finally says,“… eggplant.” Isak wrinkles his nose. Since when did Even call him a sexy _anything_? “Anyway, I like it.”

“Thanks,” Isak says distractedly. He clears his throat, musters an eye roll, “And there’s no such thing as a sexy eggplant, you dork.”

“Take away the eggplant, then,” Even says easily, shrugging off his jacket.

Isak blinks slowly at him, trying to decide whether or not he wants to clarify with Even _what the hell does that even mean,_ but the moment is lost. He shoots Even a slightly quizzical look before pivoting around to lead Even further into the apartment.

The apartment he shares with Jonas is fairly simple and minimalist in its design, but here and there they have placed random accoutrements dating all the way back from their high school days till their working adult lives. There are random drawings on the walls, pictures they've taken with their high school friends, notes from the film screenings they’ve attended, and a few movie posters.

He still feels a little weird having Even in their apartment. It’s not as if they haven’t spent time outside of film events together, and Jonas gets along with Even like a house on fire, but it’s the first time Even’s been in their little flat after all.

“Your place is great,” Even declares suddenly. “It’s very you.”

“I do live here,” Isak points out dryly.

“I've only ever seen the entrance, from those times I've had to bring your drunk ass back," Even smiles wryly. "It’s cleaner than I’d expected,” Even adds with a glint in his eye, earning a smack on his shoulder. “Where’s Jonas?”

“He’s out getting more stuff,” Isak tells Even. “He thinks my lowly culinary skills won’t be enough to feed you, oh visionary filmmaker.”

“Oh I think you’ve got great culinary skills,” Even says gravely. “You definitely know the way to this filmmaker’s heart.”

Isak forces a laugh, even though his mind is still scrambling to process the joke. _It’s a joke, right?_

Before he can ponder on this, he realises that Even is looking a little too closely at him. The little vines in his stomach start acting up again, making him freeze. He narrows his eyes at him, stiffening slightly when Even reaches out...

“You’ve got a little something…” Even trails off, brushing the pad of his thumb against Isak’s cheek. Isak can only watch him speechlessly as he caresses his face a little before pulling his hand away. “There, all gone.”

“Thanks,” Isak says stiltedly, averting his eyes. He clutches the packs of beer to his chest and puts them in the refrigerator to chill.

Sometimes, he still catches himself marvelling at the odds of befriending someone the likes of Even; someone who loves films – possibly even more than Isak does, someone who shares the same code of humour, someone who puts up with Isak’s brash words and knows what he actually means, and actually getting along like they’ve known each other forever.

But the little friendship thing they’ve got for a good two months now suddenly feels too large and too small at the same time. Their interactions no longer feel easy, and instead feel slathered in a slippery frisson of nervous energy.

Isak feels a little like he’s experiencing the early symptoms before the onslaught of a big flu.

He shakes off his thoughts and walks towards the living room, sinking into the couch. “The food will be ready in a minute.”

He flips the channels aimlessly as Even hums and settles right beside him, his thigh pressing against his. Isak swallows thickly. The entire length of his leg crackles at the contact and he has to forcibly hold himself still to keep from jerking away violently.

Apart from the low voices from the television, the apartment is relatively quiet. Isak doesn’t remember when the silence between them began to feel prickly and uncomfortable. Thankfully, Even breaks it, “Um, I’m going to get myself a beer. Do you want anything?”

“I’ll do it,” Isak says, going into the kitchen to pluck a beer from the pack. He hovers in the kitchen for a bit, trying to gather his thoughts. Maybe he's the one making everything weird.

He blows out a breath and grabs another beer, shaking his head a little.  _Don't be weird._

Even spots him as he's walking back out and reaches an arm towards him, but he pauses. He doesn’t want to overstep and he trusts that Even knows his limits, but he can’t help but worry sometimes. He passes the beer over and tacks on a little hesitantly. “Take it easy, alright?”

As he looks at Even, Even’s eyes grow impossibly soft. “I will. Thanks.”

Cracking open his beer, Isak takes a long, satisfying slurp of his drink and collapses back on the couch, making sure to leave a tiny gap between them this time.

They each take several long swigs of their beers in silence. Isak isn't really processing anything that's playing on the television, all too aware of the tiny sliver of space between them on the couch. He's feeling so antsy that he's sure Even can sense the tension practically vibrating off his skin. But Even doesn't seem to be conscious of it when he shuffles over slightly and closes the distance between them.

Worrying his lower lip, Isak quietly expels a long breath when he gingerly shifts forward to set his drink down on the coffee table. He surreptitiously leans back again on the couch. He's trying to be discreet about inching away, but he's caught off guard when Even casually - abruptly - grabs his hand.

Isak stares unblinkingly at the television, mystified, as Even casually starts playing with his fingers. Apparently, this is a _thing_ that they do now. He’s trying not to turn and look at Even, trying to pretend that everything’s normal. 

 _What the fuck is happening?_ He's trying to even out his breaths, calm his racing heart, as he slowly leans against the backrest.

Gradually, his heart stops fighting its way out of his chest, but he still can't bring himself to look at Even, or to pull his hand away.

To be honest, it is pretty nice. Even is gently and methodically pressing at his palm, tugging onto his fingers, drawing smooth circles on his knuckles. He wants to ask Even what he’s doing, but at the same time he’s afraid to confront the thing between them and make everything weirder than it already is.

“Honey, I’m home!” Jonas’ voice rings out.

Isak rips his hand away in a fluster and jumps out of his seat. “I’ll grab your coat.”

Jonas shoots him a weird look, but shrugs out of his coat and allows Isak to hang it up for him. Even trails behind him and greets Jonas with a warm hug. “You’re here early,” Jonas tells Even.

“And I got us beer.”

“That’s mostly why we keep you around,” Jonas laughs.

“And here I thought it was my impeccable charm,” Even jokes.

Isak sniffs haughtily, “I’ve got that covered for all of us.”

Even snorts, and Jonas rolls his eyes.

Already, Isak feels himself relaxing. This - the back and forth bickering – Isak can handle.

* * *

Ok, so Isak can’t handle this. He _can’t._

Dinner starts off fine. Even loves the food, and even Jonas, who can sometimes be playfully critical of Isak’s experimental cooking, has no complaints.

They launch into film talk. They discuss the best films they’ve seen in the year and get into childish little bickers, where it’s usually Isak arguing for the sake of it.

Then, over dessert, Jonas launches into a dramatic recount about his recent date that went horribly wrong. Isak has heard the story before, so he only jumps in with comments every once in a while. He’s cracking up at Jonas’ description of the worst things his date did and is about to offer a witty remark, when his laughter dies in his throat and all his thoughts fracture into incoherent bits.

He flicks a startled glance over to Even, but the latter appears to be listening intently to Jonas’ animated recount of his date.

Underneath the table, however, one of his fingers is lazily tracing random shapes and letters onto the back of Isak’s hand. At first, Isak thinks it’s an accident, just Even moving his hand, until the rest of his fingers settle and start dancing lightly on Isak’s skin.

It’s hardly a touch, just a light brush of the dry pads of Even’s fingers upon the back of his hand, but the contact is electrifying.

His thumb sweeps over Isak’s knuckles, reminiscent of the earlier hand massage at the couch. His fingers caress his dry skin almost innocently, doodling circles and loops and waves and...

“Pass me another beer, will you?” Jonas says, interrupting his thoughts.

Isak startles in his seat, reaches over, but Even tells him softly, “I’ll get it.”

Even takes his hand away from Isak’s and passes Jonas another beer from the pack.

He doesn’t bring his hand back.

Isak can only chew unthinkingly, his mind furiously spinning, trying to process if _that just happened._ He can only watch dumbly as Even resumes conversation with Jonas, laughing and joking like nothing has happened.

The back of his hand burns with the circles and loops and waves that Even's hand has left behind, prickling in the wake of his contact.

He's desperately confused. He  _wants_ Even’s hand to complete its circuit on his skin.

He swallows his food, chugs down his beer. He laughs mindlessly when Jonas cracks up at something Even has said.

Whatever it is, he is suddenly certain that they can’t go back to the way they were before.

* * *

“So, I’ve been meaning to ask…but why _Kardamomme Toast_?”

They are camped out before the television, voices from the movie playing softly. Jonas is slouched on the floor before the coffee table, lazily nursing a beer. Even and Isak are on opposite ends of the small couch, occasionally flicking glances at each other. 

Jonas snorts at the question. “I can’t believe that wasn’t the first thing you asked Isak.”

Isak waves a hand at the air idly. “Don’t even pretend you don’t know. You’re just asking this now because you want to hear me wax poetic about how much I love your films, how they’ve inspired me, blah blah blah.”

“Ah,” Even’s eyes are alight with mischief and something else. Something warm. “I’d guessed.” 

Then, he leans across from his spot on the couch and leers playfully at Isak, “You were inspired by the sex scene in my film.”

“Don’t even get him started,” Jonas chuckles. “It’s not just any sex scene -”

“It’s the turning point of the entire film, the first time Adrian realizes that Art is in love with him,” Isak cuts in, sitting up. “The way the camera tracks out from Adrian, silhouetted against his kitchen window, the whole long take of the scene, the symbolism of the Kardamomme…” He trails off, blushing hotly. “Fucking hell.” 

Even chuckles at his reaction, an infuriating smirk on his face.

Isak shoots an annoyed look at him, “Shut up.” He slumps back against the couch as Even and Jonas laugh at him.

Just then, Jonas lets out a loud yawn. “I think I’m going to turn in, guys,” he waves absentmindedly, yawns once more, before staggering away. “Don’t be up too late, lovebirds.”

 _Lovebirds?_ Incredulous, Isak wants to call after Jonas, but he can only watch, slack-jawed, as Jonas troops back to his room.

He turns back to see Even staring at him, brows furrowed, as if he were a complicated math puzzle.

“What?” He mouths.

“What what?” Even says, frown melting into a boyish grin.

“What what wh-” Isak sighs, rolls his eyes. “You know what? I’m not going to do this with you.”

Even laughs quietly and lets his head fall back against the headrest. As he is lying there, he watches Isak, blinking sleepily from his side of the couch. “Thanks for dinner,” he says, voice soft. “It was…really good.”

“Good,” Isak echoes faintly. He licks his lips and notes with interest that Even is tracking the movement with his eyes. Finally, he summons some effort to sit upright and say, “Look, can we – can we talk?” 

Slowly, Even nods. He copies Isak’s position and angles his body towards him.

“So, what’s your deal?”

Even crinkles his nose. “What?” 

Isak lets out a frustrated noise. He’s confused and nervous and annoyed at the same time. “What’s with all the… calling me sexy and…during dinner…and the hand massage! What’s with the goddamn hand thing?”

Even waggles his eyebrows, “So you liked the hand thing?”

“No, I don’t- you know wh- ugh,” he groans, burying his face in his hands. He gathers his thoughts, inhales deeply, and lifts his head to regard Even. “Why have you been acting weird since…you know…since we…ugh.” He drops his face in his hands for the second time.

_Did we kiss that night?_

Finally, Isak pries his hands away from his face, sighing, “Why have you been acting weird?”

“I haven’t been acting weird.”

“Yes you have!”

“Ok, so I hold your hands a bit, and I compliment you sometimes.”

“That’s not weird?”

“Do you think it’s weird?”

“Yes!”

“Why?”

“Because,” he splutters, scrambling to put together his thoughts. “Because we don’t do those things. We’re…we’re friends.”

_Did we kiss?_

Even looks at him for a long moment. He looks a little crushed, but he quickly flashes a tiny smile, “We _are_ friends.”

“Then why?”

“What do you mean?”

“What do you mean what do I mean?”

“What do you mean why?”

“What do you mean what do I mean wh - ,” Isak cuts himself off, sighing deeply. He throws his hands up in exasperation. “Fuck it,” he mutters under his breath.

He clears his throat and pins Even with a serious look. “That night, at the pub. Did we...” He trails off, darting his eyes nervously about, before dropping his voice. “Did we _kiss_?”

Even widens his eyes comically. He glances around, before hissing in a too-loud whisper. “ _What_? _We_ _kissed?_ ”

Isak stares at Even, brows furrowed in concentration. He watches as Even finally dissolves into laughter, face scrunching up helplessly.

Embarrassment and relief burn in his chest as he sulks, “We didn’t do anything, did we?”

“You must have been pretty out of it,” Even snickers, reaching out to tousle his hair.

Jerking away from his hand, Isak crosses his arms petulantly. “It’s just, I can’t remember, ok? And then ever since that night you’ve been acting weird and messing with me and I’m just so fucking confused all the time and I don’t know how to, how to deal with this thing.”

Even looks slightly flustered by his outburst. He closes a hand over Isak’s and says softly, “Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get weird on you.”

Still slightly miffed, Isak turns to face Even. He frowns, “So why did you?” 

“Why did I what?”

“Why are you…why do you keep doing that?”

Even regards him silently for a second. “You really don’t know why?”

Isak stares back at him. He doesn't know if he _knows,_ or if he’s just overthinking things, like he usually does. Instead, he settles for the safer response. He shakes his head hesitantly.

"You're slower than I thought," Even says, smiling. He huffs out a little breath. "I thought I'd _show_ you, but since you're asking me directly..." He flickers his eyes towards Isak. “What do you remember from that night?”

“We…er, we almost kissed, didn’t we? But we didn’t.”

“We didn’t,” Even confirms, smiling a little. “You were so drunk you couldn’t even stand up straight. You just fell on me and went to sleep. I had to call a cab and drag you home.”

“Jonas told me about that part,” Isak admits, feeling a little embarrassed.

Even laughs, but he sobers up as he searches Isak's face, “I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said that night. About not waiting. About going back to directing, writing my own screenplays.”

Isak is a little thrown by the sudden turn in the conversation, but he nods encouragingly.

Even adds, “And I’ve been working on something. I wrote a little thing, it’s not finished. Far from ready. But –“

“But it’s something,” Isak says quietly, smiling at him.

“It’s something,” Even agrees, eyes soft. He inhales sharply and squeezes Isak’s hand. “So, let’s not.”

Something clenches his ribs painfully.

“What?” Isak asks in a hushed voice.

“...Wait.”

Isak stares at him, blinking slowly. _Let’s not wait._ “Are you…are you telling me what I think you’re telling me?”

Even rolls his eyes, but he knocks their foreheads together and obligingly says, “I’m telling you what you think I’m telling you.”

“And you’re telling me that -”

“That... I want to kiss you,” Even's voice is low.

Isak’s skin ripples with goose bumps.

“Oh?” He hears himself say. “And have - have you thought about this before?” 

Even groans in exasperation, “I’ve been wanting to kiss you for the longest time." Isak sucks in a breath at this, but before he can flail or freak out at Even's words, he continues, "Even when I thought you didn’t like me."

Even lets out a shuddering breath, and when he flicks his eyes back towards Isak, he looks strangely vulnerable. "And then you liked me as a friend. And god, it was so easy being your friend. The easiest thing in the world." Even beams at him suddenly, the expression childlike, but the smile melts into something almost wistful, "So I thought I would let these feelings fade with time. I mean, of course I don't think about doing...things with you all the time, especially after we've become friends. You know, e _specially because_ we're friends..."

He gives Isak's hand another little squeeze, and continues, Adam's apple bobbing on his throat, "But you know, during the odd occasion, when you've put on that stupid grey suit, or when you've got a little peach fuzz going on because you've been working on a tight deadline, or when you're meeting me for coffee in the mornings and you've missed out on a little cowlick...these feelings still crop up. But that night, the way you looked, I just -”

“Come here,” Isak cuts him off, blushing furiously. 

He tugs onto Even's shirt, pulling him close. 

And then they’re kissing, lips pressed together, swallowing each other’s giddy smiles and hushed chuckles. In between muffled laughter, they surge back into biting kisses. Even is pressed up against Isak, fingers brushing skin, their legs tangled up. Once or twice, they pull back and look at each other, faces giddy with suppressed delight, as if they can't quite believe they're doing this.

Slowly, finally, they stop cracking up. Isak closes his eyes as their frantic, adrenaline-fuelled kissing gentles into something languid and slow, his fingers still clutching the soft fabric of Even’s shirt. 

Instead, they’re kissing almost lazily, as if they’re just killing time on the couch with nothing else better to do. Eventually, they pull apart after Even breaks the kiss to nose gently along his jaw.

“So, does this mean you _fancy_ me?” Isak muses out loud. Even snorts obnoxiously against his neck, which should be gross, but Isak thinks it’s adorable.

“I fancy the fuck out of you,” Even finally says, shuffling on the couch so that Isak is lying on top of him, chin pressed against his chest. Even is tracing some funny little shapes onto his back. The idea that Even is leaving secret messages on his body amuses him a little. He feels Even doodle a large question mark onto his skin, under his sweater. “What about you?”

“Hm,” Isak pretends to consider. “You’re ok, I guess.” 

Even huffs in mock offence. “I’m _ok_?” He flips them over so he’s hovering over Isak, but before Isak can anticipate anything remotely exciting, Even gets up from the couch and _walks away._

“Ok! Ok, fuck, fine,” Isak calls out, grabbing his arm and tugging Even back onto the couch. He forces himself to look properly at Even and scowls, “ _Obviously,_ I...y'know...feel...y'know...about you," His heart is crashing against his ribs so hard that he feels like he might throw up, but in a good way; like if he throws up it's going to be fairy dust and rainbow sprinkles. And also something magical will happen.

"Would you care to be more specific?" Even says, a little too gleefully.

"Just - " he breaks off, making an affronted little noise when Even playfully leans away. "Come back here.”

"I'm here," Even says, his lips curving upwards. He's sitting on the couch, angling his body towards Isak, but there's still an annoying slice of space between them.

"Come here _properly,_ " Isak glares at him, shuffling towards him. "And stop smiling like that."

He wraps his arms around Even and - in his blind embarrassment - smacks a hasty, poorly-aimed kiss on his chin. "God, you're infuriating. I don't even know why I like you."

The smile widens on Even's face, which makes Isak think of dumb things like the sunrise and ice cream and toast in the mornings. Which don't even make sense. But Isak doesn't really care.

And when Even kisses the pout off Isak, Isak lets him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grumpy Isak is grumpy. Sorry this update came a little late, but I hope you enjoyed reading!

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a while! I wanted to write something before Christmas and I haven't really come across any fics with Film Critic Isak, so here you go! I don't know why there aren't more of these fics because Isak roasts his friends (especially Magnus) like nobody's business and I love it. I'll try to get the next chapter out sometime around Christmas next week! Happy Christmas, everyone <3


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